


The Boxer's Son

by glorious_spoon



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Secret Identity, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:44:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell's Kitchen looks after its own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boxer's Son

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/3230.html?thread=6496158#cmt6496158) on the kinkmeme:
> 
> give me the people Matt's just saved finding out his secret identity because his mask got ripped off while he was unconscious--because Matt Murdock is still well-known in and around Hell's Kitchen--and all of them keeping his secret. maybe even standing up to the villain who just put them in this situation when he comes for Matt.

He comes awake slowly, head pounding, the taste of his own blood thick in the back of his throat. He’s flat on his back on cold, wet asphalt, and there’s someone kneeling over him. A woman, by the smell of her perfume, which has the sharp copper undertone of fading adrenaline. There are footsteps behind her, and she turns her head to say, “I think he’s waking up.”  
  
More footsteps. Heartbeats, all of them racing. Two men. Three more women.  
  
The woman kneeling over him reaches down, and Matt grabs her wrist before her hand can make contact. Her pulse jumps under his fingertips, but her voice is gentle. “Hey. Are you okay?”  
  
“What--happened?” he asks. His voice is raw, and he apparently has a split lip. It stings as he talks. Explains the blood, anyway.  
  
“You don’t remember?”   
  
Matt starts to shake his head, and it’s only then that he realizes that the damp is bleeding into his hair from the pavement, that he can feel the cool night breeze on his cheeks. His helmet. He’s not wearing it, which means these people can see him, they’ll know--  
  
“Hey, hey.” A male voice this time, older. A faint grunt as he kneels on Matt’s other side. “Hey, calm down, kid.”  
  
“I’m not--” Matt licks his lips. “I need to--”  
  
“You need to rest for a second,” says the man. “You just took one hell of a beating, and God knows what kind of internal injuries you got. My wife’s calling an ambulance--”  
  
 _“No,”_  Matt says sharply, sitting up. The young woman rocks back on her heels. “No ambulance.” He puts his hands to his cheeks, like he’s going to hide his face  _now._  His gloves are gone, too, and he realizes that his armor is gaping open along one side. He prods the skin under it, gingerly, but it seems unbroken, just slick with cooling sweat.  
  
“Okay,” the man says softly. “Okay. No ambulance.” He raises his voice, and Matt winces. “Chantel, never mind the ambulance.”  
  
“Thanks,” Matt rasps.  
  
“Hey, you saved our lives, I ain’t gonna make you do nothing you don’t want to.”  
  
Right, that’s--right. He remembers now. Four thugs in the employ of some small-time goon--Matt hadn’t even bothered to get his name. They’d been planning a little arson party with a side of murder at a deli whose owner had refused to pay protection. He’d interrupted. There was a butcher knife involved, and one of the thugs was carrying a slapjack. He’s going to kiss that damn genius Melvin the next time he sees him; it’s a wonder that thing didn’t crush his skull.  
  
But now he’s sitting in the middle of the sidewalk with a splitting headache and  _no mask_  and these people--the deli owner and his family, he’s guessing--have all seen his face. Which is bad enough, but if the mask came off before he knocked those assholes out--  
  
“I took the mask off,” the man is saying. “Couldn’t tell if you were breathing, didn’t want you to go and die on me. My boys locked those lowlifes in the storage closet, but they were out cold, so I don’t think they’ll be any fuss.”  
  
Just these people, then. Good. Well, not  _good,_  but better than it could be. Matt lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay. You can--” He gets his feet under him, stands with a groan. His entire body is sore, but nothing seems to be broken. He won’t be running any rooftops tonight, but he should be able to get himself home under his own steam. Or to Foggy’s place, at least. Foggy will berate him, but he’ll also give Matt the pull-out couch and make sure that he eats something before he crashes. “Call the police. Sergeant Brett Mahoney. He’s--he’ll make sure it’s taken care of. I have to go.”  
  
“Are you sure you’re okay?” the young woman asks.  
  
“I’m fine,” Matt says, which might be a slight exaggeration but isn’t quite an outright lie. “I’ve had worse.”  
  
“I bet you have,” says the man. “You’re Jack Murdock’s boy, ain’t you?”  
  
Matt freezes. “I--”  
  
“Folks around here still remember Battlin’ Jack. Damn shame what happened to him.”  
  
“Yes.” Matt’s throat feels tight. “Yes, it was.”  
  
The man nods. He’s a warm shape on the edge of Matt’s senses, his heartbeat still slowing. “You take care of yourself, all right? Get home safe.”  
  
“And you won’t--” He stops. He has no right to ask them to lie for him. Whatever the fallout, he’ll deal with it.  
  
“We won’t say a word,” the man says. “Hell’s Kitchen owes you a debt, and we look out for our own, ain’t that right, Tamika?”  
  
“That’s right,” the young woman says. She stands up, too, hesitates, then kisses him softly on the cheek. “Thank you.”  
  
Matt nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, but he manages to drudge up a smile for her as she steps aside to let him pass. One of the other woman--the older one, smell of rosewater and cigarettes--holds out his mask, and he takes it with murmured thanks.  
  
“You get home safe, you hear?” she says, and he nods. Then she, too, steps aside and lets him pass.  
  
***  
  
“Hey, Matt, you’re on TV,” Foggy says the next morning, handing over an ice pack and a cup of coffee.  
  
“Great,” Matt mutters, sinking into the couch.  
  
“Or, you know, your nefarious alter-ego is, anyway,” Foggy adds, as Matt presses the ice pack to the side of his head. “You rescued a deli? That’s awesome, man. Maybe we can get free sandwiches.”  
  
“So you’re okay with me getting beat up by a couple of two-bit thugs as long as you can get free food out of it?”  
  
“What can I say? I have my priorities.” Foggy reaches out and pushes Matt’s hair back, fingers still cool from the ice-pack. “Seriously, though, how are you doing?”  
  
“I’ll live.” Matt sighs. “You might as well turn it up. See how bad it is.”  
  
“You’re such a beacon of sunshine and optimism, Matt, it’s what I love about you.” He unmutes the TV just as the announcer says  _“--DeWayne Lovey and his family, who were witnesses to Daredevil’s most recent exploits.”_  
  
Matt takes a morose sip of his coffee.  
  
 _“Mr. Lovey, what can you tell us about Daredevil? I understand he lost his mask in the scuffle--did you get a good look at him?”_  
  
 _“Well, I can’t say for sure it was Daredevil, if you understand me.”_  DeWayne Lovey’s voice is slow and confused; he sounds nothing like the calm, perceptive man Matt remembers from last night. Matt pauses with his coffee halfway to his mouth. _“He was a nice young man. Blond, if I recall correctly.”_  
  
“Apparently you weren’t the only blind guy on the scene,” Foggy says  _sotto voce._  “Lucky thing.”  
  
 _“Dad, he wasn’t blond.”_  It’s the young woman’s voice. Tamika. She sounds impatient and dismissive.  _“He had a mohawk, though, you know like those club kids do? Tattoos. Real sweet, but he was scary-looking.”_  
  
 _“Right, right,”_  DeWayne concedes.  _“Piercings, too. Through his nose and everything.”_  
  
 _“And a nasty scar on his face,”_  chimes in the older woman, who must be Mrs. Lovey.  
  
Matt sets his coffee down and presses his lips together, feeling a traitorous warmth blooming in his chest. Beside him on the couch, Foggy starts laughing quietly. “Sounds like you made quite an impression.”  
  
Matt thinks about the quiet way DeWayne Lovey spoke to him last night, the way he said his father’s name and told him that Hell’s Kitchen looks after their own. “Yeah,” he says out loud. “I guess I did.”


End file.
